Sir Victor's brow cleared. Charley's frankness, Charley's perfect good-humor staggered him. Had he then been mistaken after all? He stretched forth his hand and grasped that of Edith's cousin.
She turned suddenly and walked away, a passion of anger within her, flashing as she went a look of hatred—yes, absolute hatred—upon Charley. She had brought it upon herself, she had deserved it all, but how dared he mock her with his smiles, his good wishes, when he knew, he knew that her whole heart was in his keeping?
"It shall not be in his keeping long," she said savagely, between her set teeth. "Ingrate! More unstable than water! And I was fool enough to cry for him and myself that night at Killarney."
It was half-past eleven when she went up to her room. She had studiously avoided Charley all the remainder of the evening. She had demeaned herself to her affianced with a smiling devotion that had nearly turned his brain. But the smiles and the brightness all faded away as she said good-night. She toiled wearily up the stairs, pale, tired, spiritless, half her youth and beauty gone. Farther down the passage she could hear Charley's mellow voice trolling carelessly a song:
"Did you ever have a cousin, Tom?
And could that cousin sing?
Sisters we have by the dozen, Tom,
But a cousin's a different thing."
Every one went to bed, and to sleep perhaps, but Sir Victor Catheron. He was too happy to sleep. He lit a cigar and paced to and fro in the soft darkness, thinking of the great bliss this day had brought him, thinking over her every word and smile, thinking that the first of September would give him his darling forever. He walked beneath her window of course. She caught a glimpse of him, and with intolerant impatience extinguished her lights and shrouded herself and her wicked rebellion in darkness. His eyes strayed from hers to his aunt's, farther along the same side. Yes, in her room lights still burned. Lady Helena usually kept early hours, as befitted her years and infirmities. What did she mean by "burning the midnight oil" to-night. Was that black lady from London with her still? and in what way was she mixed up with his aunt? What would they tell him to-morrow? What secret did his aunt hold? They could tell him nothing that could in the slightest influence his marriage with Edith, that he knew; but still he wondered a little what it all could be. At one the lights were still burning. He was surprised, but he would wait no longer. He waved his hand towards Miss Darrell's room, this very far gone young man. "Good-night, my love, my own," he murmured Byronically, and went to bed to sleep and dream of her. And no warning voice came in those dreams to tell Sir Victor Catheron it was the last perfectly happy night he would ever know.
CHAPTER XIV.
TO-MORROW.
To-morrow came, gray and overcast. The fine weather which had lasted almost since their leaving New York showed signs of breaking up. Miss Stuart's ankle was so much better that she was able to limp downstairs at eleven, A. M., to breakfast, and resume her flirtation with Captain Hammond where it had broken off last night. Miss Darrell had a headache and did not appear. And, in the absence of his idol and day star, Sir Victor collapsed and ate his morning meal in silence and sadness.
Breakfast over, he walked to one of the windows, looking out at the rain, which was beginning to drift against the glass, and wondering, drearily, how he was to drag through the long hours without Edith. He might go and play billiards with the other fellows; but no, he was too restless even for that. What was he to do to kill time? It was a relief when a servant came with a message from his aunt.